Page 26 of A Very Bumpy Christmas
Melanie
“I told him,” I say into the phone, tracing a circle in the condensation on my water glass. “Last night. I told Lucas he’s the father.”
Charlotte doesn’t gasp. Instead, she exhales slowly. “How did he take it?”
“Quietly,” I say, because that’s the truest word. “Too quietly. My brain prefers interpretive dance to silence.”
“Interpretive dance can be violent. Think about how silent you were when you first found out you were pregnant,” she says dryly. In the background I hear a dog bark and remember being there with Lucas. “Is he coming today?”
“Yes.” I check the clock again even though I just checked it. “We’re riding to the appointment together.”
“I’m proud of you,” she says, soft and sure. “Drink water. Let him carry things. You don’t have to do everything yourself.”
“I know,” I lie.
“You never know,” she counters, and I can hear the smile. “Text me the heartbeat count.”
I hang up, tuck my phone into my tote, and waddle—walk—to the window. Outside, Saint Pierce switches jackets again: a gray morning shrugging toward sunshine. Down on the street, a black SUV pulls into a spot like it belongs there.
My heartbeat picks up.
He’s on time.
Of course he is.
A knock. I open the door and there he is—peacoat, beanie, the kind of calm that steadies a room. He’s holding a paper bag and a bottle of water like a welcome kit.
“Hi,” I say, immediately thirsty.
“Morning,” he answers. His gaze does that scan—door, hallway, me—then settles on my face. “You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.” I step back to let him in. He doesn’t crowd. He crosses to the counter, sets the bag down, and hands me the water with thathydration is queenlook I’m starting to recognize.
“What’s in the bag?” I ask, already unscrewing the cap.
“Granola bars, almonds, two bananas, and a lemon muffin because I couldn’t tell if you’re a muffin person.”
“I’m a muffin person,” I say, touched and also suddenly in love with the lemon muffin. “And a lemon person.”
“I’ll carry your bag,” he says, like it’s not a question. He loops the strap over his shoulder, checks the zipper, then offers me hishand to help me with my coat. It’s small, efficient care, and it short-circuits me more than grand gestures ever did.
The elevator ride is quiet in that not-awkward way, our shoulders almost-but-not touching. In the car, he adjusts the seat, heat, and mirrors like he’s calibrating a cockpit. “Seatbelt okay?” he asks.
“Okay,” I echo, and settle back. He drives with two hands and the patience of a man who refuses to jostle a pregnant person or their cargo. It’s… nice. Confusing, but nice.
“What are you thinking?” he asks after a block, like he’s not afraid of the answer.
“That you’re being very… not-pushy,” I admit, staring out at the storefronts sliding by. “And I don’t know what to do with that. I thought you’d show up with a powerpoint and a custody schedule.”
His mouth tips. “I can make you one if you need it.”
“I don’t,” I say, laughing despite myself.
“I figured I’d start with showing up and not screwing up,” he says simply. “We can add complexity after we eat muffins.”
At the OB’s office, the receptionist recognizes me (“Hi, Melanie!”) and clocks Lucas standing at my side. Her eyebrows do a little hello dance, but she’s a professional and keeps it moving. We sit. Lucas takes the chair next to mine. He points at the water bottle cap when I forget to drink. I drink with a roll of my eyes. When I have to fill a form I’ve already filled twelve times, he holds the clipboard and reads the annoying date fields aloud like a very handsome teleprompter.
“Melanie?” the nurse calls. We stand like a team. In the exam room, paper crinkles under me, and Lucas picks the corner where he can see me and the door. His eyes skim the cabinets, the sink, the poster of a lemon pretending to be a uterus.
